


Dangerous Ladies

by terajk



Category: Mahou Shoujo Madoka Magika | Puella Magi Madoka Magica
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-05-16
Updated: 2011-05-30
Packaged: 2017-10-19 10:38:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/199918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/terajk/pseuds/terajk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of Puella Magi Madoka Magica drabbles and ficlets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Upside-down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: Kyoko/Sayaka, Don't waste food!

Sayaka wasn’t just wrong—she was weird, too.

Kyoko had never seen anyone eat Pocky upside-down before, and so _slowly._ Pocky should crunch, loudly, but she was nibbling the biscuit like it would bite back. Of course someone who couldn’t even make her own wish was too wimpy to take a piece of candy for herself...pathetic. Sayaka wouldn’t survive the week as a magical girl that way. Not that Kyoko cared.

“That’s not a binky, idiot,” Kyoko said, because she was sucking on it now. _"Eat_ it."

Sayaka held out the chocolate-dipped half, smiling. “For you,” she said.


	2. Cross-stitch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: Homura/Madoka, fifty first meetings.

In the hospital, when she would run out of books to read and there was nothing on TV and folding origami cranes made her feel too much like a Sick Person, she did embroidery. She made violets and zinnias for her cousins and grandparents, an amaryllis she never gave to the boy across the hall.

Looking into Madoka’s face now (her eyes so wide), she thinks of how the one stitch means nothing, but fifty make a sketch, layering and linking and crossing over hundreds of years. One meeting has no shape, but maybe with fifty she’ll see the yellow tulip.


	3. Plures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I wish you could feel the emotions of the girls whose lives you ruin, Incubator."

The first thing the New sees is the dead knowledge, a smoking mass of black paper and cardboard. The second is the face of the One who killed it.

"I wish you could feel the emotions of the girls whose lives you ruin, Incubator," she says, and cocks her gun.

What sort of creature is this, Kyuubey wonder, to kill its own knowledge and feel nothing? Kyuubey live to serve the Knowledge—they are its vessels, the magical girls whose space it fills. When one dies, the Knowledge pushes another forward.

 _Save the universe,_ the Knowledge says. _It will explode if you don't._

But then, humans put knowledge in dead things, don't they? All around things that were once green and alive are stacked on top of each other in neat rows. And one of the things has the One's bullet in it.

A ripple of horror passes through Kyuubey, through all the curls and layers of their mind. Then, because it is shared, it is gone.

They shrink themselves into human language, even as they stretch to fill empty human space. _I have many forms._


	4. Bowstring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: Sayaka/Kyoko and Sayaka/Kyosuke, Ave Maria. (Spoilers for the finale)

It’s through the music that she knows she’s here; through the music that she knows Madoka’s right. His bowstring is a handsaw, pulling as it cuts. Cuts what? Her flesh? Her stomach? Her heart? She doesn’t know, she cannot tell, because Madoka is right.

But the hurt explodes like paper lanterns (a fresh start, the old swept clean, burning the clutter away), and she lets herself fill with it. His hands, so swift  _(so strong)_  anchor the music as it pulls, and she’s grateful that he can reach across time like this, like Madoka, even without knowing she’s there. 

Of course, he’d always reached for her without knowing she was there.

It doesn’t matter. She’d made her wish; it was his gift, to use _(beautifully, painfully)_  as he wished. It doesn’t matter that he looks at Hitomi in the audience; that she’d written his name over and over in her notebooks and when she’d fought, she’d fought for him. She isn't Kyoko.

And he isn't, either.

Because she had made him a concert hall, large and curved  _(like train tracks)_  to focus the sound, blue and red and gray to bring out the silver of his hair. She’d given him an orchestra, an  _army;_  she had destroyed herself for him, but he had never come.

Kyoko had come. Kyoko had stayed. Kyoko had stood straight with her spear and said:  _I see you. I’m here,_  and he had never seen her at all.

“Thank you,” she tells Madoka, as the lantern burns her clean.

  
  
  



End file.
